An Innocent Man
by WriterJC
Summary: Steve Sloan pursues a case that he just can't let go of. But will the case be the one that takes him out - completely?
1. A Cry in the Night

**An Innocent Man**

Author's Note: This story takes place sometime between the 7th and 8th seasons of Diagnosis Murder, though there are no real spoilers for any episode. It does not take into account any of the events in the movies Town Without Pity or Without Warning. Namely, Carol is alive and well and Steve has not yet met Ellen Sharpe.

Author's Note2: This story has also been sitting on my hard drive for about five years now. The story should end up approximately 15 or so parts, of which 7 are written. I stumbled over it, and decided to post it to see if there was any interest. If there is, I'll finish it off, and post a section every few days.

**Part One: A Cry In The Night **

Swing shift was never boring. The thought crossed Cheryl's mind as she wound her way past two uniformed officers who were trying to deal with an angry disheveled woman. She was certain that she'd never seen the stringy-haired blonde before, but she knew the scenario well. No doubt the woman's significant other was being held, and despite the fact that he had taken a few swipes at her, she chose to harass the peace officers who were there to protect her instead of trying to get herself out of an abusive relationship. It was the sort of marital loyalty that made no rational sense to Cheryl. But then, she thought, rational sense didn't guarantee a successful marriage.

Determined not to allow her mind to go any further down that path, she quickened her pace and moved through the door that led to the Robbery/Homicide section of the precinct, effectively muffling the woman's irate arguments.

She was brought up short as she moved to pass the work area of her sometimes partner, Steve Sloan. Several files were spread haphazardly across the wooden surface, a metal desk lamp shining down on them - just as they had been when she'd gone out to interview a witness two hours earlier.

She glanced around the office, and, unsurprisingly, found his tall athletic form near the coffee maker pouring dark brew into a mug. As he turned away from the counter and caught sight of her, she looked pointedly down at her watch.

"What are you, coffee monitor?" Steve asked, moving past her on the way back to his work station. "I put my $5.00 in the can like everyone else."

Cheryl chuckled at his transparent effort to divert her from the real point of her gesture and moved on toward her desk, where she settled her things in a lower drawer. "The coffee wasn't the issue," she informed him before following him to his desk.

"Oh? Care to share?" Steve put his mug down and crossed his arms over his chest, giving her his full attention. The look he directed toward her was one he occasionally used to throw her off guard, it was full of puppy-dog eyed pleading which tended to end all arguments.

Most days Cheryl would have called him on it, and then done what he'd wanted of her anyway. But instead, she simply smiled back at him, appreciating the simple normalcy of their relationship. In that moment of observation, she noted the lines of tiredness around his mouth and eyes, saw beneath to the heart of gold. Steve was a good man, and a good friend.

She realized that she'd lingered too long in consideration when his smile faded and gentle concern rippled across his expression. "Everything okay?" he asked softly, seriously.

Cheryl looked away briefly to compose herself before favoring him with a sheepish smile. "Swing shift," she shrugged lamely as an excuse.

"If you want to talk …." Steve said, not letting her off the hook quite so easily.

"I know." She acknowledged his offer, but didn't pursue the conversation. She had already bent his ear once during a weak moment while on stake out. She hadn't given him all of the details, only the bare minimum to explain her attitude of late. He hadn't offered advice or judged, but simply listened and supported. Though she appreciated those few minutes, she had no intention of going there again.

"How did the getaway go?" he asked, speaking of the three day couple's camp she and her husband were to have attended over the past few days.

"It didn't go so well," she admitted.

"I'm sorry."

She offered a wry half-smile. "Me, too." She then cleared her throat, effectively changing the subject. "So, what's the story with your desk?" She gestured behind him.

"My desk?" Steve looked over his shoulder toward the files and still running computer.

"Yes. Why not clear it up and go home? Unless my memory fails me, your shift ended about three hours ago."

"Would you believe I'm here for the coffee?"

"No." Cheryl crossed her arms.

Steve shrugged. "I've just got a couple more things I want to look into. You know how it is."

"What are you working on?" she asked, moving in closer to take a look at the files. The numbers across the top were very familiar. She shot a look back up toward him, a suspicion growing in the back of her mind. "I thought we ran out of leads on this one. And I know for a fact that you have enough other cases on your plate to keep you plenty busy."

"Believe me, I do." Steve agreed with her. "But I've been giving it a couple hours here and there."

"You mean you've been working late every night and probably coming in early to work on it." Cheryl corrected.

"I'm a homicide detective," Steve replied. "It's my job to solve murders."

Cheryl couldn't argue that, and wasn't going to try. "That doesn't mean that you should do it at the risk of your own physical well-being."

"What are you saying?" Steve asked. "Do you think I'm running myself into the ground over this case? I'm not, you know. I just want to help three families find some closure over the loss of their loved ones."

"That's noble, Steve. I'm not telling you not to try, just to go home, get some sleep and start on it again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Friday," Steve said quietly.

"Friday? What does that have . . . ." She broke off, remembering something from earlier on in the case. Now they were getting to the crux of the matter. "He's still calling?" she asked, remembering Devlin Brody, the father of one of the victims. More details of the case came back.

Antonia Brody, thought by Steve to be the third victim of a single killer, had been studying nursing at night at St. Augustine's College before her death. She had been survived by a father and a brother. During Steve's interview of them, she had noticed his subtle reaction when father and son, in their grief, spoke of what Antonia had been like. After having been estranged for a time, she had returned and planned to make her life over.

Cheryl had learned part of the story of Steve's own strained relationship with his sister, and even she had to admit that Devlin Brody reminded her very much of Mark Sloan.

"Like clockwork," Steve replied in answer to her question. "He only asked the simple questions, like how am I progressing on the case? Have I found the man who killed his daughter? You know - easy stuff."

"You can't beat yourself up over this, Steve," she said gently. "Sometimes the clues just go away. You can only do the best that you can and then let cold cases have it."

"Yeah, and they'll get around to it in what? Ten years? And then they'll probably look at them all separately. I've got to do what I can, while I can."

"You're preaching to the choir, partner. Cold Cases is grossly understaffed. But you can't take that burden on yourself."

She thought momentarily to tell him that he could let the man leave a message, but thought better of it. Steve wouldn't do that. Mr. Brody was a good man who was simply devastated by the loss of his daughter. Dealing with surviving family members was always the most difficult part of working homicide.

Steve simply shook his head, looking off into the distance. After several moments he turned toward her, his expression changed. "Actually, it's pretty thin, but I may have found a link between the women aside from the place where their bodies were dumped."

"Really?" Cheryl was surprised. "And you're just now mentioning it?"

Steve chuckled, and put up his hands up in surrender. "I said it was pretty thin -- a real long shot. I was --" The ringing of his phone cut him off mid sentence. "Hold that thought," he told her, then moved around the desk to pick up the receiver.

"Detective Sloan. . . Yes, I did. Lauren Hudson, Jenine McFadden and Antonia Brody, yes. Are you sure? That's strange. When? What's the name? Did you give an address? Give it to me. Thanks, you've been very helpful. I'll be in touch. Goodbye." Steve finished scribbling something on a slip of paper and dropped the phone back into its cradle.

"Busy?" He shot the question in her direction. "Wanna ride back-up?"

"Are you kidding?" It was her lunch hour anyway. "Lead on, McDuff."

~*~*

Full night had fallen when Steve pulled out of the precinct parking lot on to Burbank Blvd. Road construction added unneeded character to the Thursday night traffic crawl. But even that mild irritation couldn't dampen the anticipation that was growing within him. After weeks of dead-ends, and no-ends, he might finally be getting somewhere. Maybe the next time he talked to Mr. Brody, he could tell him that there would be justice for his daughter after all.

"So, mind telling me where we're going?" Cheryl asked from the passenger seat. They had gone through every bit of background information that they could find when they had been working the case together. He was sure that she was thinking there wasn't much more that could be done.

Steve's look turned sheepish. "It was more sheer desperation than anything else. I entered modified versions of all their names into an Internet search engine. That got me about 50,000 hits - per spelling. When I finally got around to doing them all with the letter 'i', you know, Jenni with an 'i", Lauri with an "i" and Toni with an 'i', the very first link came up something."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope." Steve's grin broadened. It felt good to have a lead in the case, and it was especially nice to be able to talk to someone about it. The St. Augustine case wasn't one that he had taken home, nor intended to. It wasn't so much that Antonia Brody made him think of Carol. It was that her father, Devlin Brody, made him think of his own dad.

"So, how do names spelled with "i" relate to the murders?" Cheryl wanted to know.

"Well, that link lead to a webpage with a calendar that had been commissioned a year ago by a club up near San Francisco. I was waiting for the club's web master to get back in touch with me. He didn't remember all twelve of the girls in particular, but he remembers someone calling earlier today asking about Lauren Hudson, Jenine McFadden and Antonia Brody specifically. This person also asked about the photographer."

"The photographer?" Cheryl asked. "Any idea why?"

Steve shook his head. "No. But I think a chat with him is in order, don't you?"

Fifteen minutes later, Steve brought the dark blue police sedan to a stop outside of the address that the web master had given him. Peering through the windshield he looked up at the heavy brick structure. It was situated on a street containing similar buildings, all of which had been abandoned decades prior. In a recent stint of renovation, some had been transformed into lower cost working lofts for the city's many "starving" artists. The building belonging to the photographer did not look as if it had yet received the benefit of the renovators.

"Is this what they call atmosphere?" Cheryl quipped as they climbed out of the car and walked toward a heavy metal door emblazoned with the words 'Josh Brine Studio - Exceptional Photography for Exceptional People'.

Steve chuckled, and raised a hand to knock. The door moved slightly inward. The chuckle dropped away as he shot a meaningful look toward his partner. He knew that the same thoughts that were going through his mind were going through hers. If they entered this building, any evidence that they might find against Josh Brine would be inadmissible. An unlocked door did not constitute consent to have the premises searched. Yet, they were tempted. Some indefinable instinct told him that something was wrong.

Moving a hand closer to his weapon, he looked around the area. The street was quiet, no cars passing, no dogs barking. There wasn't even a breeze disrupting the branches of the trees in the distance, or the tall grasses in the field beside the warehouse. Everything was eerily still, almost as if for that moment, the world was holding its breath. Waiting. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

A soft, barely audible thud punctured the quiet. It was enough to send both their instincts to high alert. Their weapons were up and ready, and they had taken up defensive positions on opposite sides of the door. But still they waited. A bump in the night was not a good enough reason to enter uninvited, either. Now, a nice piercing scream, that would be reason enough.

Steve got his wish.

He physically jerked when it sounded, and stared at the door in confusion. Something was wrong with the direction of the sound.

"It came from the woods over there," Cheryl said, already turning in that direction.

Quickly refocusing, Steve set off after her as they moved as quietly as they could through the tall grasses.

(to be continued)


	2. Alone in the Night

Quick Note: Thanks for all the words of encouragement! Here's the next part.

**Part Two: Alone in the Night**

Steve and Cheryl moved quickly and cautiously across the uneven ground, ducked low behind the minimal cover of the tall grass. It wasn't until they reached the edge of the wooded area that Steve caught sight of something moving near ground level.

He squinted, trying to make out what it was and continued to creep carefully forward. The faint sound of plaintive gasps reach his ears, and then suddenly, horrifyingly, his mind registered what he was seeing.

His blood ran cold.

Entangled among the trunks of two close-growing trees and thick, bushy undergrowth, he saw a pale neck with a dark scarf wrapped tightly around it. Grasping fingers clawed desperately at the relentlessly tightened material. Shadow and greenery prevented him from seeing either the victim or the assailant's facial features, but somehow he knew that the victim was a woman.

Despite the initial shock of the situation, years of police training and experience asserted itself and he reacted. Standing, his gun pointed where he thought the assailant -- though hidden by bushes -- would be.

He called out a warning. "Stop! Police!" There was no surprise that Cheryl was in the same position and yelled the words almost simultaneously.

The shadowy form of the attacker jerked, apparently startled at having an audience. And then, with a rustling of bushes, fled.

"Call for back-up!" Steve cried over his shoulder, already headed after the perp. Adrenaline pumped through his system, sending him pressing onward between the trees, jumping over fallen limbs and ducking beneath low hanging branches.

The ground began a decline off to one side. He could make out the glow of the man's pale arms as he continued, crashing through the woods. As the perp started down the slight incline, Steve saw his chance.

With a flying tackle, he drove the suspect to the ground. They hit the forest floor and slid several feet atop the slippery bed of fallen leaves. The man, much shorter and more slightly built than Steve, tried to wriggle away from him. But Steve grabbed him by an arm, and with slightly more force that was necessary, flipped him onto his stomach, flattening him into the dirt while he clamped handcuffs around his wrists.

"Don't hurt me, man! Don't hurt me!" The man beneath him cowered, sniffling as his cheek lay pressed against the ground.

"Are you Joshua Brine?" Steve demanded, disgusted by the man's whimpering. Anger and righteous indignation rose within him, and all he wanted to do was to throttle the other man senseless. But he knew that such action would make him no better than the animal that he held firmly to the ground.

"Yeah! Just don't hurt me!" Brine replied, his sobbing sound even more pitiful.

"Get up!" Steve ordered, not even trying to hide his feelings of distaste. Locking a hand behind one of Brine's elbows, he helped him to his feet. Halfway up, Brine suddenly spun, sending a shoulder hard into Steve's abdomen. The force of the blow caused Steve to lose his footing on the already precarious hillside and he slipped backward, falling against a tree.

Brine took immediate advantage of the situation. Not content to simply try to run away, he planted a vicious kick into Steve's side.

Steve grunted at the blow and curled protectively inward in an attempt to protect his mid-section. He allowed himself to go slightly limp.

"Not so bad, now? Are you cop?" Brine demanded with a nasty sneer. He then drew his foot back for another kick.

Steve caught the leg and yanked it out from beneath him. Brine went down as if he'd been pole-axed. Steve was quickly on him, grinding him roughly into the ground. He spoke in a soft, dangerous voice, "If I wasn't one of the good guys, you wouldn't be leaving these woods alive, Brine. But, please, do try something else. Just because I am one of the good guys doesn't mean I wouldn't mop this place up with you first." With a forceful jerk, he yanked the man to his feet and pushed him forward. "Start walking."

Moving along behind the other man, refusing to acknowledge the pain that ground through his chest and ribs, Steve thought he saw real fear as Brine glanced back over his shoulder at him. Brine wasn't to know that Steve had no intention of doing anything that might prevent him from being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

"I think you broke my nose," Brine murmured.

"File a complaint."

The man muttered something offensive under his breath, which Steve ignored as he began to inform the cuffed man of his Miranda Rights.

Apparently heeding the portion about the right to silence, Brine didn't speak again during the rest of the walk back to the edge of the woods. Steve wasn't sure how much time had passed, but felt certain that their back up would be arriving soon. Hopefully they would be there by the time he reached Cheryl and the would-be victim. A good thing since he had a feeling that next time Brine decided to try something, there would be more than a bloody nose.

They were nearing the area where he was certain he had left Cheryl. He spotted the two trees where he had first noticed Brine attacking the woman, but his partner was nowhere in sight. And neither was the other female.

He looked across the field of tall grass, in search of flashing lights which would indicate that an ambulance or a patrol car had arrived. There was nothing. Only the return of the quiet of the night. This time though, there was a light breeze, and it blew at the fringes of his hair, rustled in the tall grasses and the leaves of the trees.

"Where's your partner?" Brine cackled under his breath.

Steve pushed Brine toward a tree and slipped his gun from its holster. "Sit!" he ordered, both his tone and his stance threatening violence. Brine obeyed, but the leer never left his features.

"Cheryl?" Steve called out into the night for his partner. Her disappearance didn't make any sense at all. Why would she leave the scene of the crime? He was beginning to wonder if he'd made a wrong turn at some point.

"Detective Banks!" he yelled, keeping watch on Brine as he did so. He then refocused on the trees, checking the ground for tracks or some clue as to where they might have gone. He didn't imagine that the woman who had been attacked would be able to go very far under her own steam, nor did he think that Cheryl would encourage her to without a very good reason.

Continuing to weave between the trees, he came to an abrupt stop when he saw a pair of leather-clad feet poking out from behind a bush, their toes pointed skyward. Based on size and style, he immediately recognized them as belonging to Cheryl. Fear arrowed through him, its icy fingers clamping viselike about his insides.

"Cheryl . . . " The word was barely a croak as he rushed around the thick bushes, both anxious and terrified of what he might find. Amid the greenery, he found his partner laying in the dirt and leaves. She wasn't moving. And the grass and leaves around her were slick with what could only be blood.

He had no time to react to the confirmation of his worst fears. Between one pounding heartbeat and the next, he felt a sharp flash of light and pain. The world spun in a wicked kaleidoscope. There was a vague awareness of the ground rushing forward to meet him, and then there was nothing.

(to be continued)


	3. A Gathering Storm

**Part Three: A Gathering Storm**

Detective Emma Lopez stepped out of her official vehicle into chaos. Blustery winds, presignifying a storm, blew around the area, kicking up dust and bits of paper. The long poles holding tall flood lights wavered slightly against the onslaught, causing an odd interplay with the flashing blue and red emergency lights. It added a surreal feeling to the scene.

Emma grimaced skyward, taking in the roiling clouds visible against the night canopy. The storm was close, a tangible presence whose barely contained fury declared a warning that time was running out. Once the promised pounding rain hit, the entire area was going to be a mess. Her hope was that she could get what she could before that happened - the rest was up to the crime scene unit.

She looked past the busy bodies which moved hurriedly about near the buildings and in tall grasses toward the edge of the woods where EMS had driven a rig out to the tree line. A stray flare of worry edged itself through her heart, but she stuffed it away. No sense in getting worked up until she knew what was going on.

As crime scenes went, this one was a nightmare. And not only because two of LAPD's own were involved. Every cop on the force was under scrutiny because of the alleged misconduct and cover-ups at a neighboring precinct. The chief had called her himself while she was enroute, declaring that he wanted this handled by the book. Emma snorted beneath her breath, like there was any other way to handle this situation.

There were several cops that she might have thought twice about becoming involved in shady dealings. But this was Banks and Sloan. Both were good cops that she admired and respected. They could handle whatever the media threw at them and come out smelling like roses.

In the short time that she had partnered with Cheryl on swing shift, she had only grown to like the other officer even more. And though she had never had the pleasure of partnering with Steve Sloan officially, she had worked with him a little while back when his sister's husband had been killed. She knew him to be a decent, stand up sort of guy. Not too tough on the eyes either.

She was half across the field when she detected a subtle shift among the uniformed officers ahead of her. Turning, she looked back toward the street and saw an approaching Channel 7 news van. With a scowl, she faced forward. Just terrific. It looked as if the sharks were already starting to circle.

"Joe," she called, redirecting her steps toward one of the patrol officers who had started to rope off the area with yellow crime scene tape.

"Yeah?" His gaze had drifted past her toward the press van before refocusing on her. His look spoke volumes. Joe knew exactly what her next request would be.

"Think maybe we should widen the perimeter a bit?" She looked up at the sky and back toward the news van. "It's pretty windy out here, and you just can't count on things not blowing in and out."

"How about past the warehouses way, way back there," Joe suggested with a chuckle as he gestured in the direction of the building at the entrance to the side street. "That should help with the air flow."

"Thanks, Joe. That would make for some nice breathing room." Emma grinned. "Were you first on the scene?" She looked around at the other half dozen uniformed officers scattered around the area. Already two of them were heading toward the street, apparently intent on keeping anyone who did not belong out. She was glad to note the crime scene wagon, and the coroner pulling in as well.

Joe shook his head. "Nah, me and Pete came in a little behind Stomes and Carew. EMS was already on the way - dispatch says Banks called them for the vic. Don't see why she bothered, though. Guy is stone dead. Shot to the back of the head." He lifted a hand up to the back of his own skull to demonstrate, adding a sound effect. He then continued, "Either way, by the time Stomes and Carew got on site, Sloan and Banks were down. Don't know what happened, but it's a freakin' mess up there."

"Yeah, thanks for the warning." Emma turned and headed toward the ambulance. Joe certainly had a way of painting a picture. But more than his description, something else about his words troubled her. She'd thought that Cheryl and Steve were coming out to question a man - that was what the message Cheryl left her had said. How had they ended up out here in the woods? And why had Cheryl called an ambulance if whomever they'd found was so obviously without hope? She made a mental note to contact dispatch about Cheryl's call.

The force of the winds seemed to lessen as she entered the protective covering of the forest. Large flood lights atop the ambulance sliced through the gloom, illuminating the area so that the EMTs could work. Despite the additional lighting, much of the view was still blocked from the angle of her approach. She didn't get a good look until she rounded the back end of the emergency vehicle. She was glad that Joe had warned her.

Her eyes were first drawn to the female detective lying between two EMTs. There was an oxygen mask over her face and a C-collar around her neck. Thick white bandaging shown from one side of the C-collar, and was soaked with brilliant redness. Though Emma knew, logically, that head wounds bled a lot, she didn't know what had caused the injury that Cheryl had sustained. Based upon the quickness of the EMTs' motions, and the frightening gray tone to Cheryl's skin, things didn't look very good. It caused the first cold twinges of true worry in the pit of her stomach.

Determinedly, she forced herself to take in the rest of the scene, this time looking on with an investigator's eye. Cheryl was on a stretcher near low lying bushes. The dark slickness of blood coated the ground nearby, indicating, no doubt, where she had been found when the paramedics had arrived. Emma refused to allow her mind to focus on just how long she had been lying there to lose that much blood.

Continuing to examine the area, she looked beyond the medics and toward a tree that was set back and a couple yards to the right of the activity surrounding Cheryl, she focused on the back of Pete Koffer, Joe's partner. He was settled in front of someone who was on the ground, propped against a tree. Pete shifted slightly, revealing more of the man across from him: Steve Sloan.

Pete wore latex gloves, and one of his hands was clamped on to Steve's upper right arm with a thick padding of bandages. Emma could see the spots of blood on it from where she was standing. Steve sat, mostly holding an oxygen mask up over his nose and mouth with one hand while trying to keep an eye on Cheryl. But every few seconds, his hand would come down from his face, and Pete would encouragingly guide it back upward. Though she couldn't hear the words, she knew that he was trying to reason with the detective, probably telling him that he needed to hold that up to his face. It was a losing battle.

Steve seemed dazed and his motions sluggish, but he responded to whatever Pete was saying. His gaze flickered upward when Emma moved forward a step. The only discernible emotions that she could see were confusion and fear. And then his attention was again drawn back to Cheryl.

Pete glanced back over his shoulder and nodded in Emma's direction, before turning back to his charge. Emma returned a solemn greeting, then continued in her perusal of the scene. A few yards to the right of Steve lay a man, obviously dead. He was lying face down on the forest floor, both his hands cuffed behind his back. No one was tending him. Doubtless, he was waiting for the coroner and the rest of the investigative team. The man appeared to have died in custody. The cold worry that had started when she'd first seen Cheryl's condition burrowed in and made itself at home. All of her previous naïve thoughts about a quick and easy case went out the window.

Emma completed her visual circuit before approaching EMS. "How's she doing?" she asked, not wanting to interrupt their work, yet unable to hold back the question.

"Couple blows to the head," one of the men supplied. "Shock. Blood loss. We'll know more when we get her to the hospital." He jerked a head in Steve's direction. "He's had a blow to the head as well, and a wound on his upper right arm. Probably a little shocky, too."

"Where are you transporting to?" Emma asked.

"Keller Memorial is closest," the EMT supplied. "You don't have long if you want to talk to that one," he gestured again toward Steve. "We patched him up a bit, but he really needs to go in. We're moving out as soon as we get her ready to roll."

Emma nodded and with a final look at Cheryl, silently encouraging her to hold on, stepped around them and headed toward Steve. He barely looked up at her approach. She settled in beside Pete on the log, trying not to notice the blood that was smeared in spots over the back of both of Steve's hands. She could see the edges of a piece of gauze which had been taped in place on the back right side of his head. There was also blood splattered on his shirt, most notably at the neck area. In short, he was a mess.

"What happened here, tonight, Steve?" she asked, wanting to get as much information as she could before the EMTs moved them.

The oxygen mask again came down to his lap as he moved his eyes to look at her. She noted the way that his upper body weaved slightly as if he was barely keeping himself upright. She glanced toward the thickness of the bandages that were being pressed into his arm, watching as Pete picked up another from the kit beside the log where he was seated and packed it on over the one that was soaking through. She noticed that both Steve and Cheryl's guns were in plastic evidence bags alongside the supplies case. She frowned.

Steve spoke, his voice soft and almost hoarse, interrupting her observation. "We came to question a suspect . . . lives in that warehouse." His eyes drifted in the direction of the street. " . . . for St. Augustine case. We heard a scream in the woods and came over here. The suspect was strangling a woman. Cheryl called for back up, I apprehended the suspect."

Emma nodded grimly. His words had been slow and measured, if slightly breathless. "Is that the suspect?" She pointed to the dead man.

Steve didn't follow her gesture, but simply said a quiet, exhausted, "Yes."

"Are those your hand cuffs?" Emma asked.

"I apprehended him." Steve confirmed.

"Did you shoot him?" Emma asked.

Steve hesitated a moment, obviously struggling to recall, before shaking his head slowly. "No. I brought him back here and Cheryl was missing. I found her right there. Somebody hit me."

She looked toward Pete, knowing that he would understand what she needed to know. Had he seen evidence of anyone else on scene? The nearly imperceptible shake of his head was response enough.

"You mentioned that the suspect was strangling a woman. Where is she?" Emma asked. "What happened to her? Can you tell me where she is?"

Steve looked around, seemingly surprised. "I don't know. She was on the ground near Cheryl."

"Think you can describe her for us?"

Steve frowned as a camera's flash illuminated against his face. Emma turned, and watched as several more pictures were taken in quick succession. Even the camera seemed to sense the urgency. She turned back forward. "Steve? The girl. Can you describe her?"

Steve shook his head, then winced slightly. "No. Didn't really get a good look."

Emma's worry deepened. "What about this guy's warehouse? Was there anyone else there?"

Steve's brow furrowed. "Don't know. Didn't go inside. Heard the scream first."

"Okay --"

"We've got to move them, now." Emma was cut off by one of the approaching EMTs. Her initial urge was to beg for more time. But Steve was clearly not himself, and Cheryl needed more medical attention than could be properly given in the woods on a California night. So she relented. There were a lot of other things she needed to look into before this night was over, anyway. She would get her statement tomorrow.

Resting a hand on Steve's uninjured left shoulder, she told him that she would come and see him later, and then got out of the EMT's way so that he could help Pete get Steve to his feet and then to the waiting ambulance.

Emma watched as the doors closed and the vehicle started back across the field, then she turned back toward the scene. It was time for the real work to begin, but first, she put in a call to dispatch.


	4. Rumblings

Thank you to everyone for all of the encouragement! Here's the next part.

**Chapter Four: Rumblings**

Mark opened his eyes and blinked at the television screen. It was a moment before his sleep-fogged brain placed the image of Tommy Lee Jones yelling something to Harrison Ford. The scene shifted as Ford looked down on a long drop into a rushing river. One of the more dramatic and engaging scenes in a movie that Mark had never managed to make it all of the way through.

He shifted his gaze downward to where a book lay, the pages splayed wide, his place hopelessly lost. He could only chuckle to himself. Another thing he was having trouble finishing. Having fallen asleep on The Fugitive as well as one of his favorite mystery writers, he could only come to the conclusion that his body was trying to tell him something. Namely that he needed to head off to bed. Even if it was only - he glanced at his watch and his brows rose - 9:40 pm. It wasn't so early after all.

The surprised look turned to a frown as he took in the rest of the dimly lit room. He hadn't heard Steve come in, and the house seemed very still. He figured that he must have been called out to something that ran long. But then, he usually called if he was going to be unusually late.

Just then, the phone rang. Mark smiled at the timing. It was probably Steve, calling to check in. Clicking off the television and setting his book aside, he got up and headed toward the side table where the cordless sat against the polished wooden surface.

"Mark Sloan," he answered, though he was essentially the only one who answered this extension. The response was more out of habit than anything else.

"Oh, hi, Jess," he responded to the energetic voice on the other end of the connection. He could hear the kitchen sounds and familiar background noises of BBQ Bob's coming across the line. "No, Steve isn't here. He must be working late again."

"Working late?" Jesse clearly didn't appreciate that response. "He can't be working late. He's supposed to be here until closing. I've got a date tonight. That new nurse on 4 finally said 'yes'."

Mark chuckled. "Well, I'm sorry, Jesse. He just isn't here. Did you try his cell phone?"

"Yeah, I did." Jesse sounded deflated. "I can't just call her and tell her that I can't see her to--" There was a sudden tone over the phone, alerting Mark to the fact that he had another incoming call.

"Hold on a minute, Jess," he cut the other man off. "There's another call coming in. Caller ID says it's coming from LAPD Dispatch. Maybe it's Steve. Why don't I call you back?"

"Okay, Mark. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. Bye, Jesse." Mark carefully pushed the button to switch to the other call. He got that particular process wrong as often as he got it right. "Hello? Mark Sloan." He spoke into the receiver, hoping that the procedure had gone correctly. If not, Steve would understand and call him back.

He was surprised to hear a female voice on the other end of the line. She quickly introduced herself as Detective Emma Lopez. The name rang familiar in the back of his mind, but a powerful sense of foreboding drowned it out. The formal note in her tone only increased the strength of the feeling that poured icily through his system. Despite assurances that Steve was not seriously injured, Mark felt in his bones that something was very, very wrong.

~*~

There was nothing he could do. The cloud of helplessness and worry seemed to engulf the whole of his brain. He tried to gather a coherent recollection of how they had ended up in this position, but the image of Cheryl in front of him on the gurney succeeded in completely derailing already scattered thoughts, returning him to those first waking moments in the woods . . . .

_He roused from a drugging lassitude to see long hazy forms dancing rhythmically before his eyes. He struggled to lift his lids further, to make sense of the images. Then suddenly they resolved into the forms of two uniformed LAPD patrol officers picking their way through the woods toward him. One of the officers stepped off to the side, and bent over a body there on the ground. It was a woman. She was so still, so grayish, so . . . . dead that it took a moment for Steve to recognize her. _

_Cheryl. _

_All the breath dropped out of his lungs, and he simply reacted. He had to get to her, had to know for sure. He had to prove to himself that it wasn't true. He lunged his way toward his feet, only peripherally noting the nearest officer's restraining arm. And then he was broadsided with an unexpected wall of pain and dizziness. _

_The world tilted on its axis, sending his insides into a gut-wrenching nose dive. A jolt ran through his body as he collapsed heavily back to the ground. Pete Koffer, the closest officer, said something encouraging to him, but all he heard was Joe's announcement that he had a pulse, that she was alive!_

_Relief spiraled through him and he sucked in a breath. The earthy scent of the forest, the metallic twang of spilled blood, and the smell of gunfire assaulted his senses. Pain and fear and shock all vied for attention. His vision dipped and began a slow spin. He knew he was going to be sick. _

Just the memory affected him physically, resurrecting the nearly uncontrollable nausea. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, desperate to hold it at bay. But the darkness and the rocking motion only heightened the dizzying sensations.

His eyes snapped open and he forced his mind to focus elsewhere. Pushing the painfully loud wail of the siren to the background, he tried to tune in to the information that was being traded across the radio link to the hospital. But the words had no meaning.

Suddenly the ambulance rocked violently before continuing along the road. The motion nearly sent him over the edge. But he didn't give in. He refused to be a distraction. After several more seconds, the sensation began to abate. Then suddenly things changed.

Barked orders floated around the inside of the vehicle as Steve's gaze was drawn to Cheryl. She looked sunken almost, as if some vital part of her was missing. That was when he realized what one of the EMTs was holding in both hands, and the word that he called before settling the paddles downward against Cheryl's torso.

"Clear!" It echoed though Steve's mind, over and over. And there was nothing that he could do.

~*~*

"Kinda creepy, isn't it?"

Emma looked away from the partially open front door of the Josh Brine studio to Joe's leering face. With the wind blowing at his spiky hair, and the surrounding emergency lights reflecting off of rawboned features, he did add a sense of macabre to the already grisly night. Despite having known Joe for years, a shiver eased up her spine. She turned back to the door. "Saves us having to bust in."

Joe's chuckle grated on her nerves. Over a decade of instincts was telling her that this case had the makings of a potential nightmare. Her only goal at the moment was to try to fit the not-quite-closed door in with the information that she had managed to get out of Steve. He hadn't gone inside, but he had arrested the man who owned the place - confirmed by the identification found on the body. So they had an unsecured studio, a dead body, two wounded cops and little else. Even the reporters seemed to sense that there was something juicy in the air -- they were still camped out on the fringes of the scene.

"I'll take point." She pulled her gun from her holster, pushed the door open and went in fast and low. Though no one had seen any action from the building during the night, she wasn't willing to take any chances. Joe came in right behind her, settling against the wall on the opposite side of the entry hall.

It was like stepping into another time. A long dimly lit corridor extended before them. A black wrought iron coat tree and a matching bench broke up the monotony of beautifully polished wood flooring. The walls were decorated with vivid murals with images that she could only guess were from the early 1900s. The pictures extended ten feet up the wall on either side. For once, Joe seemed speechless, only mouthing the word "Whoa."

The effect was so distracting that it was a moment before she realized that the stairs ahead leading upward were real. The place felt empty, even oddly safe. Frowning at the thought, she came out of her alert stance and re-holstered her gun.

"This place is freakin' amazing. And I live in L.A," Joe murmured as they started down the hall. "I don't amaze easy."

"Yeah. It's something else." Emma had to agree with him. They were half along the corridor to the steps when the wall on their right opened up into a large room. A track lighting system ran along the ceiling, and there were different "sets" arranged all around the floor. On the face of things, someone had put a lot of work into the Josh Brine Studio. With a setup like this, she wondered that it wasn't in one of the more affluent areas of the city.

She turned from the opening and looked toward the steps. They led upward into the dimness of the upper level. She could make out an open door in the shadows at the top. Dim light spilled from it out onto the landing. "Let's check up their first," she suggested.

"Up we go," Joe agreed, and led the way. Near the top, Joe kicked against something that bumped the back of the metal stair before ricocheting downward to stop on one of the lower steps.

"Woulda thought this guy was too much of a neat freak," he grumbled as he moved around her and went back down to retrieve the item. Picking it up in a latex glove, he held in up in the light. "Looks like a button." He held it out to her.

Emma studied it for half second before reaching into her pocket for a small evidence bag. "It might be important," she explained as Joe dropped it in.

"You're the detective." Joe shrugged, and followed as she continued up the stairs.

The upper area was the living quarters, it seemed. Like the studio, it was meticulously neat and well arranged. It was the type of place that she would have loved to own, but would never afford. She almost missed one door, as it was located in a recessed corner of the kitchen. It was partially cracked.

Dark room equipment was immediately obvious in the rectangular room. She was familiar enough with the equipment to be certain, but she thought the lab seemed well stocked and contained nice equipment. At its far end was another door. She moved to step through it, expecting to find a closet. She was brought up short when the dim reddish light reflecting out of the dark room illuminated something along the walls. She reached for and found a light switch. The room, nearly identical in size to the dark room appeared, bathed from above with yet more recessed lighting.

There was a cot along the long side of one wall with a night stand sized table nearby. The same hardwood flooring from the first level had been installed here as well. The incredible thing about the room however were the number of photographs carefully placed along the walls. There were dozens of them, all of beautiful young women posing for the camera. Some of the larger photos though were framed with odd items -- black silk, red velvet ribbons, and a few were framed by linked paper doll cut outs.

Emma frowned and shared a silent look with Joe. There was something a little eerie and off kilter about the room. But she wasn't quite able to put her finger on it.

~*~*

"My name is Dr. Jesse Travis, and I was informed that LAPD police Lt. Steve Sloan was brought here. I'm his personal physician." Though Jesse hadn't been specifically requested in that capacity, he was willing to use whatever leverage he could to get access to information as to his friend's condition. The ploy worked, because the woman on the opposite side of the desk picked up the phone and placed a call.

While she had a brief discussion with someone, Jesse took a moment to look around the reception area. Mark had yet to arrive - which was no surprise. Keller Memorial was a long drive from Malibu. Even though Mark had called him while already enroute to the city, they had both known that Jesse would get there sooner.

The woman on the opposite side of the desk put down the phone and turned back to Jesse. "Someone will be out to speak with you soon. You can have a seat over there." She nodded toward a section of plastic chairs.

"Thanks." Jesse smiled his appreciation and paced away from the desk. He was too full of nervous energy to sit and wait. He practically itched to be in the examination room, handling the necessary procedures himself. From the moment he had received the call from Mark, telling him that Steve was being transported, all he could think of were the potential injuries. Jesse was getting a new understanding of what the families of his patients went through. Standing out in the hall, not knowing what was going on, made him feel helpless. And he just couldn't sit still for that.

He found himself pacing near the thick, double-paned glass ER entrance doors. He'd lost track of the number of times that he had made the circuit, but he glanced in the direction of the intake desk, hoping to see someone there waiting to see him. But things were much as they had been since he had arrived. The desk attendant was speaking with someone about something on a chart, while others waited for medical care, or to hear the outcomes of loved ones.

He stopped at the sound of the doors sliding open behind him. His spirits lifted. Finally, Mark had arrived. Maybe he would know someone who could get them to Steve sooner. Mark seemed to have friends everywhere. But when he turned, Mark wasn't standing behind him.

It was a young woman. What remained of her dress was covered in dried blood. The dark substance was smeared across her arms and on her bare feet. For a moment, all he could do was stare in shock. And then his training kicked in, and forgetting that this wasn't his hospital, he yelled for a gurney.

The woman blinked once and held a crumpled piece of silk toward him. Her mouth worked as if she would speak, and then the light went out of her eyes and she collapsed into Jesse's arms. He eased her toward the floor and began to check her vitals even as he heard the wheels of an approaching gurney.

Equipment appeared along with other hands which assisted in getting the unconscious woman on the rolling bed. It was automatic that he moved with them as she was rolled toward the doors which would lead to the trauma rooms.

"Intern?" the dark-haired man on the opposite side of the bed questioned.

"Resident. Community General," was Jesse's response.

"Do you have privileges here?"

"No." Jesse shook his head and immediately stood away from the gurney. He could do little more than watch as it continued to roll by him. He knew what the rules were. Unless he had official authorization by the hospital's board of trustees to treat patients at Keller Memorial, there was nothing more that he could do.

"Sorry, pal." The dark-haired man threw over his shoulder before the doors closed, separating the medical team from Jesse's sight.

The adrenaline rush that had resulted from the woman's collapse, only added to an almost desperate need to do something. Throwing himself into helping patients was clearly out of the question. And what was taking Steve's doctor so long? He flipped his wrist over and glanced at his watch.

That was when he noticed the item which fluttered in the small breeze caused by his movement. It was the scarf that the woman had given him before she'd collapsed. He'd forgotten that he was holding it.

Appreciative of even such a small distraction, never mind an opportunity to hopefully ingratiate himself with the attendant and possibly get some information on Steve, he hurried back toward the admittance desk. If he turned the item over right away, there was still a chance that it would be put with the personal belongings of the correct patient. And, as it looked to be a rather nice scarf, he imagined that the woman would probably want it back.

The desk wasn't clear as when he entered. A tall, broad shouldered man was blocking his way. Though his voice wasn't raised, he seemed to be arguing about something.

"I just want to know how my wife is doing. It's been so long! I need to know something. Please, just tell me how she is."

Jesse really didn't mean to eavesdrop. There was urgency to the man's tone that he couldn't help but identify with.

"Sir, if you'll just wait over there. The doctor _will_ speak with you about your wife's case." The woman behind the desk urged in a calm, practiced tone.

"Can't you tell me something? Don't you know anything?"

"You really need to wait for the doctor. I can't --"

Jesse followed the human drama as a man in scrubs appeared at the woman's side and touched her arm.

"If you'll excuse me, sir," the desk attendant told the worried man before following the doctor several paces away.

Jesse looked toward the worried husband. He wanted to say something encouraging to him, but he really had no idea what his wife's condition was. So he said the only thing that came to mind. "They have great doctors here. I'm sure they're doing the best they can."

The man turned a speculative look on him as if debating whether or not he should be believed. "Are you a doctor?" he finally asked.

"Yes, I am," Jesse replied, and then immediately worked to correct the misunderstanding that he saw in the man's suddenly hopeful expression. "But I don't work at this hospital. I have a friend who was brought in tonight and . . . " His voice trailed away as the man's face fell.

"Then you can't help me."

Jesse's heart went out to the man. "I know what it's like to be worried and afraid because we don't know exactly what is happening behind those doors. But I can tell you that the doctors and nurses back there are doing everything they can for your wife. Sometimes all we can do while we wait is to have hope and pray."

An odd expression spread over the man's face, and he looked as if he would say something, but his attention was drawn away. Jesse turned to see a doctor being gestured in his direction. Moving a polite distance away, Jesse allowed him some privacy.

He couldn't hear what was being said, but he could tell that whatever news the man was receiving wasn't good. His usual medical detachment abandoned him as he worried that the unknown man's wife had died. Then the doctor led him to an orderly, who directed him toward an elevator.

The man's eyes met Jesse's before the elevator's doors slid shut. He lifted his hands in a gesture of prayer and mouthed the word "surgery". Jesse lifted his hands in response. He would continue to worry and hope for Steve, but he would worry and hope for the unknown man's wife as well.

**~*~**

Mark didn't want to number the times that he had rushed to the hospital, his insides bound up in knots of worry over a loved one. He'd repeated the heart wrenching experience often during Katherine's final weeks. But those times were different than when the one he was worried over was Steve.

Katherine's passing represented a release for her from the pain that she endured. And though he still missed her, and regretted that their time together had been cut short, that passing had been a release for him as well. After the worst of his grieving had passed, it allowed him to take the next breath and move on from the suspended animation that had encompassed him the day that he learned that there was little hope for her survival.

With Steve though, there was no debilitating illness, only the unpredictability of life as a member of the Los Angeles Police department. He refused to allow himself to dwell on the dangers of Steve's job - but these moments brought him abruptly out of his denial. Each rushed journey to the hospital filled him with the choking fear that he might be forced to live on while his son did not.

As he followed the signs that would take him to the room that the desk attendant had indicated, he gave silent thanks that Steve had been admitted to the general ward. That signified that his conditional was not critical. He came to an abrupt halt as he reached the correct door. A moment to take in a quick breath, and then he eased the door open on silent hinges before he poked his head inside.

The room was dim, only a small lamp near the head of the bed provided illumination. The soft lighting seemed perfectly placed to shine down on Steve's semi reclined form. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of sleep. If not for the bandages that were just visible, peaking around from the back of his head and sticking out from beneath the short sleeve of the hospital gown, Mark could have almost believed that Steve had merely checked in for a good night's sleep. Of course, the lone IV stand, bearing a bag full of a clear liquid would have had a share in despoiling the image as well.

Still, the sight before him was oddly quiet and peaceful. Relief flooded through Mark like a cleansing wave, washing away the fear and anxiety that had dogged him every mile of the traffic-ridden journey from Malibu. He moved farther into the room, automatically retrieving Steve's chart. But he couldn't focus on what it contained. His eyes were drawn instead to the man who occupied the bed.

As he drew closer, other details came to his attention. Tiny flecks of blood were visible on Steve's skin - there was a bit on his right arm and along the side of his neck. His hair, normally very neat, was mussed, having dried with a slight wave before it fell across his brow. His gaze continued down Steve's right arm toward the place where the IV had been inserted in his wrist. It was an automatic response to check the drip and read the side of the IV bag. Simple saline. More evidence that Steve's injuries weren't considered life threatening.

Vestiges of a smile found its way over his features. He wanted to reach out and touch Steve, but he feared waking him. Sleep was no doubt exactly what he needed. That was when he noted something else peaking from beneath the low neckline of the hospital gown - a darkening bruise. The smile faded away and he looked at last to the chart, seeking answers on the nature of the injury.

The door opened suddenly and a soft step sounded as someone entered the room. Mark turned, mildly startled, to see Jesse bearing an apologetic look.

"You made it," Jesse whispered and gestured back out toward the hallway. Mark quietly returned the chart and followed him out.

"He was very much awake when I left, and very agitated," Jesse explained once they were outside of the door. The younger doctor spoke with his usual energy, but there was something subdued about his manner that troubled Mark. "He swore I'd never get him to sleep short of large doses of drugs unless I went and checked on Cheryl for him."

"I'm glad to see he was wrong about that." Mark commiserated. He knew what sort of patient his son was.

Jesse made an agreeable expression. "A concussion and a gunshot wound will do that to you."

"What!? He was shot?" Mark's voice rose.

"It was just a flesh wound," Jesse assured him. "But he got a pretty hard knock on the head. He's being held for observation."

"Was he able to tell you what happened?" Mark wanted to know.

"He was pretty groggy and out of it by the time I got to talk to him," Jesse said. "He just wanted to know about Cheryl."

"And how is she?" Mark asked, mildly ashamed that he had forgotten that Steve's partner had been injured as well.

Jesse sobered. "She's in neurosurgical ICU, Mark. That's all I was able to get from the doctor who treated Steve in the emergency department. But still, it didn't sound good."

Mark was astounded. Steve shot and concussed, and Cheryl . . . . "What in the world happened tonight?"

"That's what I'd like to know." A no-nonsense female voice interrupted their conversation.

Mark looked up into Emma Lopez's tired expression. "Detective Lopez." He immediately moved toward her, noting the white plastic bag containing the Keller Memorial logo. "Thank you for calling and letting me know about Steve."

"No problem, Dr. Sloan. I know Steve would do the same for me." She nodded a greeting toward Jesse before she peered beyond the both of them toward the closed door of Steve's room. "How's he doing?" she asked.

"He's getting some much needed sleep," Mark informed her.

"Think he'll be up for some talking in the morning?" Emma pressed, shifting the white bag from one arm to the other.

Mark frowned at the official edge to the question. "Talk as in checking in on a fellow police officer, or something more serious?"

"I'm sure you're familiar with the drill by now, Dr. Sloan. All officer-involved shootings are investigated by Robbery Homicide."

"I am familiar," Mark agreed. "If I remember correctly, four other agencies investigate as well -- the Critical Incident Investigation Division, the District Attorney's Rollout Team, the Inspector General of the Police Commission and the LA County Coroner's office."

Emma smiled, the warmth reaching her eyes. "Very good," she commended, then immediately sobered, but her demeanor had softened from the previous. "So you know that I'm just one wave of those who are going to be questioning what happened tonight."

"That why you have Steve's clothes?" Mark asked, gesturing toward the bag that she held awkwardly under one arm.

The smile reappeared as she nodded, seemingly impressed by his deduction. "How did you know that?"

"Father's intuition." Mark shrugged, not wanting to go into the long explanation of her body language and the direction the conversation had taken. Then it was his turn to sober. "Can you tell me what you know about tonight?"

"All I know for sure, Dr. Sloan, is that one man is dead and two police officers are in the hospital."

"How was Steve involved?" Mark wanted to know. He was well aware of the media attention on the police department over the past few months.

"That's all I can share. Good night, Dr. Sloan, Dr. Travis. I'll be back in the morning to talk to Steve." Emma turned and headed back the way she'd come.

"Did Steve kill him?" Mark blurted the question, needing to know at least that much.

Emma paused, turned and walked back toward him. She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then said in a low voice, "The victim was found with a fatal gun shot wound to the back of the head, his hands cuffed behind his back. Steve told me that he'd taken the man into custody and that the hand cuffs were his. Steve's weapon showed evidence of having been fired. I'm sure you'll understand why that information is not for public consumption."

Rendered speechless, he was unable to come up with any further questions and could only share an open-mouthed look with Jesse as Emma Lopez disappeared along the corridor.

(to be continued)


End file.
